


The Meeting

by ahimsabitches



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Ass to Mouth, Ball-Sucking, Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Nipple Play, Threesome, Warning: Immortan Joe, actually there's no undertone that's what it is, here there be dicks, light maiming, lots of pegging, so many bjs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe calls his associate warlords to the Citadel for a very important meeting with very important Business to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canis_exmachina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_exmachina/gifts).



> Canis-exmachina (@ same on Tumblr), won third prize in a fic giveaway contest I'm doing for the month of June! Congratulations, my friend! I hope you like it!

Richard's sloping gut settles in a sigh as he watches He Of the Steel Plumage pace Joe's private office, wearing his own tiny clinking metal crowd that applauds him at every step.

"God forbid you'd ever have to sneak up on anyone, Major," Richard says mildly from his (uncomfortably small) chair across the desk from Joe's padded one.

In answer, Kalashnikov shoots Richard a rifle-hot glare. Richard fingers a nipple and wonders why the Colonel had called them. If he'd told Kalashnikov anything-- and he very well could have, to make him jitter and fret so-- he hadn't told Richard. He seldom did. So Richard came prepared: the latest ledger balanced on what little lap he has, his best bone-and mahogany pen tucked into his lapel pocket, and a full flask of whiskey hidden, securely, in his vest.

The door explodes open with a metallic _SPANG_ that makes Kalashnikov's hand strike at the gun-- Jane-- at his hip with viper speed. He drops it when he sees who'd just entered.

The Colonel says not a word. His heavy black brows are thunderheads over the bleached-out blue of his eyes. He twists his face out of the mask, tosses it over his head and strides purposefully into the room.

Once upon a time, Richard could read those eyes. His health-- and sometimes life-- had depended upon it. But now there are always storms in the Colonel's eyes, and Richard had tired of trying to decipher which wind had blown the wrong way.

The Colonel grabs the back of Kalashnikov's bulleted helmet and pulls him into a brutal kiss.

_Oh. That kind of meeting, then._

A slow grin draws his fleshy jowls upward and he tweaks his nipple. If he were capable of embarrassment, Richard would have blushed from his collarbone to his eartips at how _utterly_ Kalashnikov melts into and for his Colonel. As it is, he only smiles and listens to Kalashnikov's muffled moans.

"Do I get kisses too, Colonel?" Richard says, smacking his lips.

Joe breaks the kiss, to Kalashnikov's visible dismay, and slaps Richard with a flat, meaty hand. The sound is a rifle report in the quiet room. "Shut up, _swine_. You'll get what I give you and _thank_ me for it."

"Yes, Colonel," Richard says, cheek stinging and grin wide.

"Y'shoulda given me a bit of fuckin' warning, Moore. I only brought Sarah 'n Jane. Vera hasn't had a go in a while an--"

Joe spins and attacks Kalashnikov's clothes, which shuts him up in a hurry. His helmet clunks to the floor, followed by Joe's absurd plastic carapace. Richard can drum up neither pity nor shame for the two of them, who play at kings and play each other for pawns, still, and even after forty years they can't see that the board on which they move is just one color: desert-brown.

Sarah and Jane are, for the moment, quiet and forgotten at Kalashnikov's feet as the only being on earth who could _make_ him forget them is digging his hands greedily into his bullet-belted trousers. Richard hooks the toe of his good foot into the strap, draws it toward him, and deftly empties the barrel. The shells go into one expansive pocket. He slides the gun back to where he'd found it. The other is too far away for him to reach from his chair, so after a brusque three-count to himself, he heaves his bulk to standing and wraps his arms around Kalashnikov from behind, easing a kiss onto the rim of his ear.

Kalashnikov growls into Joe's mouth and does exactly what Richard predicts he would: jams a bony elbow into Richard's ribs. He exaggerates his backward stagger, kicking the other gun back with him. With less grace but far more subtlety than either of his cohorts, he empties the other gun and returns it.

Richard does not mind being, literally, elbowed aside in most cases. Joe thinks himself so far above the man who'd brought them all to this _land of milk and honey_ in the first place; who'd kept his trains running on time without a _single_ derailment in forty years. And Kalashnikov cares nothing for Richard; can't, not when half his waking thoughts are of steel and ore and the other half feature the growling blue-eyed poultergeist currently working Kalashnikov out of his clothes.

But the Colonel had called _both_ of them to him. And now that he is here, Richard wants very much to be _used_.

He goes at Kalashnikov again, this time earning a more forceful elbow which doubles him over and forces the air from his lungs in an abrupt _HOOH_.

"On the ground," Joe says, his voice stony, and Richard isn't sure who he meant at first. But since he is already halfway there, Richard lets his momentum send him to the ground. He welcomes the pain of the impact, drilling into his back and hips. He welcomes the dull _thup_ of his head striking the stone. _Aaah, much better._

He slips away from himself on his next outbreath, a release almost as exquisite as orgasm. He no longer has a name. His body doesn't belong to him; he doesn't even inhabit it. He is a homunculus, animated by and for other men, a moveable thing with no soul.

Something eclipses his view of the shadowed stone ceiling, and on reflex, he opens his mouth to receive what he's to be given, a baby bird blindly wanting, _wanting_.

Kalashnikov's-- he knows by the smell: old, sour sweat and bitter saltpeter-- balls plop gently onto his face, and he wiggles them into his mouth. Then the mouth of a gun is mashed against his neck. Then a boot presses between his tits. Hard. His ribs compress. Kalashnikov grinds his ass against the enameled bronze nosepiece that perches on Richard's face, and the corners bite into the tender skin around his absent nose.

The boot on his chest-- Joe's; it's bigger and heavier than Kalashnikov's-- lets up and loops the chain strung between hits tits over it. Richard can't take a preparatory breath, nor can he grit his teeth. So he clamps down with both hands on Kalashnikov's wiry thighs and pulls him down, choking out a moan.

Joe yanks Richard's chain viciously; each nipple is a gunshot of pain. Richard catches his breath and would have laughed were he able. _Rip one out_ , he pleads wordlessly to Joe. _Rip one out, then make me pierce what's left. Piss in the wound. Laugh while you do it. I want to see your old brown teeth and I want to be hit when my hands shake too hard and I want--_

Suddenly boot and balls are taken away from him and he's heaved up by the lapels of his coat. "Strip," Joe barks as he pulls Richard's coat off. "Then on your knees."

Richard does as he's bid as fast as he can. His hands do tremble just the slightest bit, but they steady when he looks down at himself and sees red pulp where his nipples used to be. The right one is intact, but the left one and half the areola dangle by a hairy flap. Blood runs in freshets down his vest and one fat, satin-red bead makes its undulating way down the length of the chain.

Delirious elation makes undressing less of a toilsome chore than it usually is. He's not all the way into position before the Colonel is panting behind him, pressing his cock into Richard's arse and his fingers into the blubbery crease of Richard's hip.

 _How thoughtful_ , Richard thinks. _He used lube this time_.

And then Joe is inside him with an unsteady grunt. The next instant, a gun is shoved into his mouth. It jars a loose and rotten molar, and Richard moans. The gun tastes like oil and steely rage. The sound Kalashnikov makes is feral; halfway between a growl and a whine, and Richard understands.

Kalashnikov wants what Joe has; what Richard is currently getting.

"Be a good _piggy_ or Sarah'll blow her load all the way down your rotten throat," the Major says, and Richard does not--cannot-- argue. He flicks his eyes up and oh, the hatred in Kalashnikov's knifesteel eyes, pouring down on him, _all for him_ , nearly pushes him over the edge.

The gun is yanked from his mouth and the returned to his left jaw with whipcrack-quick speed and all the force in the Major's body. Richard's head snaps to the right and the tendons in his neck shriek. The bad tooth is on his tongue now, and a gout of blood pumps into his mouth from the hole, throbbing with sick, rotten pain. He rolls the tooth around in his mouth before spitting it out.

 _Bit of a pity, that,_ he thinks. _I've always wondered what it would taste like. That rot, spreading and spreading to my whole mouth._

That thought is the only one for which he has time, and then the Major's cock, long and lean like him, rams into Richard's face. " _Gag on it, whore,_ " Kalashnikov hisses, but Richard's gag reflex has gone the way of his pride, his nose: away forever.

Kalashnikov holds the gun to his temple and the trigger clicks impotently on an empty chamber. Richard knows better than to laugh.

The Major makes that noise again, the sound of yearning unfulfilled, and stamps his booted foot down on Richard's chain. There isn't but an inch or two of distance between the dangling lock-charm and the floor, so there is pain but Richard's tattered nipple clings to his body still. _Oh please tear it off please make me eat it oh pl--_

The Colonel rumbles something and Richard is emptied from both ends. They heave him up and Joe opens his bedroom door. Ah, yes, the Colonel's aching joints that demand softness. Joe is first on the bed, groaning in pain and relief. Kalashnikov herds Richard to the bed.

"Fuck," the Major mumbles, his upcurved cock twitching. He'd been close and now Richard had denied him. Kalashnikov catches Richard watching him, then swings the gun in his hand in an almost lazy arc at Richard's arse. Richard outweighs and would probably outclass Kalashnikov, but the power in his sinewy arms is enough to propel Richard into the bed. His thighs smack the edge, jolting the bed and Joe on it, and his rock-hard cock is briefly-- _excruciatingly_ \-- folded in half and jammed into his balls, which are squished against the wall of his thighs.

Nausea pops like a greasy green bubble deep and low in his gut. He is not given time to compose himself; Joe presses his face into the sheets and something cold and hard that could either be the Major's cock or a gun is shoved up his arse. _Click_.

" _Goddamn_ you, you fucking bastard, you unloaded _both of them_!" The near-agony in the Major's voice sends a gleefully capering creature through Richard's mind despite the nausea still boiling in him and the ugly throbbing pain in his jaw that's infecting his whole head now.

_Maybe I'll vomit maybe he won't let me up maybe I'll suffocate in it or maybe Joe will make me lick it up oh please I'll be a good boy I'll be a good pig just let me please_

He says the words to the sheets that smell like sweat and talc and Joe, clenches his fists around cloth and his arse around the gunbarrel. He can’t see anything but the black insides of his own eyelids. Pain becomes every other sense. What the Colonel says he can't decipher, but he hears rage-- and desire-- clot his voice and turn it thick and sour. Anger and lust have been the same in the Colonel, have been the same for forty years and Richard is yanked up by the flabby skin of his neck like a dog and he opens his mouth to receive whatever he’ll receive and it’s Joe’s cock, of which he obediently takes all and more. Joe splays both his hands on Richard's head and groans and through the pain in his jaw, his tit, his arse, his gut, Richard feels the Major's frantic need washing over him like an electric cloud and feels the sadistic glee baking from Joe like a heat wave.

He is happy, oh, _joyed_ , to be the leaf caught between their twin tornadoes, to be ripped to shreds by their iron lust. He is the Colonel's creature: a wedge placed between him and the Major. He is the Major's creature: a whipping boy to do unto as he would like, in the pit of his heart, to do unto the Colonel.

But there is a bit of _unfinished business_ dangling from his chest.

Richard moans because he can't speak, and runs a hand from the crack of Joe's saggy arse to his balls. Which earns him a healthy hit to the (sore) jaw with a steel fist. Pain streaks through Richard's head like lightning, dizzying him.

 _Now that my mouth is free..._ "I'm glad something of yours is as hard as it was forty years ago," he pants.

"Shut up, pig, and _take_ your _slop_ ," Joe grunts and thrusts his thick cock back into Richard's mouth.

_Plan B._

Richard moves his hand over the tortured terrain of Joe's skin, gently clings. Presses forward in an outward show of need, ropes of bloody drool drizzling from his mouth, and works Joe hard with his mouth and tongue, works him like he's a paying customer whacked out on engine degreaser in the wet, warm underbelly of Bartertown. The Colonel groans, primal and low, and bucks his hips. Each thrust pulses new pain through Richard's head but neither lets up.

It doesn't take long. Kalashnikov nearly shrieks in panicky indignation and the gun is gone from Richard's arse and oh, more pain _explodes_ into his gut from Richard's booted kick. The bullets festooning his shoe bite into Richard's skin and he topples onto his side, his mouth leaving Joe's cock with a comical _pop_!

Richard fights air back into his lungs, clutching the spot where Kalashnikov had kicked him. High on his left side, oh so near that dangling nipple.

Kalashnikov surges into the space Richard had just left like air into a vacuum. Joe seizes a fistful of his peppery grey hair and twists Kalashnikov's head back and up. The Major yelps, but not in pain or anger or fear.

"You want it, Kalashnikov?" Joe asks.

The Major maintains eye contact as long as he can, then drops it and mumbles, "You know I do, Moore."

"How badly, Major?"

The Major's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Richard's guts and jaw are throbbing tumors of pain.

"Please, Joe. I need you."

Kalashnikov positively _squirms_ under the cruel blue of Joe's eyes. Then Joe does three things at once: releases the Major's hair, spins his finger, and reaches for the lube on the bedside table. Richard grimaces; the joyful _speed_ with which Kalashnikov moved to present himself to Joe jostled the bed and his sore, nauseated guts.

It would have been funny under different circumstances, the remarkable similarity between an excited wiggly puppy and the Major ready to take Joe's cock, but just now, Richard is sore and unsated. Joe slides his cock home and Kalashnikov's eyes flutter closed. They both groan with relief. As his self slowly returns to him, Richard resigns himself to his own hand, of which he makes use. He tugs gingerly at his dangling nipple, then tugs harder. If neither of them would finish what they started, he would rip it off himself, and come when it pulled free. A consolation prize at least.

Richard listens to the Colonel's and the Major's rutting sounds and jerks his cock with one hand and tugs at the ruin of his left nipple with the other. Blood flows anew. He licks it off his fingers with relish.

"Come here, whore, I've got something for you."

Joe had spoken. Richard blinks at him, his white-powdered face unreadable. Kalashnikov, with his arse still stuck up in the air, glares at them both with a mixture of consternation and loathing.

"I said come _here_ ," Joe growls and grabs Richard's chain and _ah oh YES_ in one quick, wicked _rrrip_ the last piece of nippleskin tears free and Richard squeals and smiles around Joe's cock and it isn't but five or six more pumps for _both of them_ and they come, Joe into Richard's mouth and Richard onto Joe's sheets. Richard's come lands on top of the scarlet patters of blood from his ruined nipple, and he finds it beautiful.

Joe pumps his hips a few more times then sags back onto the bed, sated and exhausted, his breath coming in frayed, rocky gasps.

It's never a lot, Joe's load, less, always, than he'd boasted, but there was one man in the room who wants-- _desperately_ \-- the mediocre puddle of snail-salt on Richard's tongue. He cocks an eyebrow at Kalashnikov, whose eyes are a warzone between fury and sorrow.

Slowly, a man in a dream, Kalashnikov turns his back to Richard and presents his narrow, bony arse. Richard crawls to him, spreads his cheeks, still hard with muscle after all these years, and delicately deposits Joe's come into the Major's arsehole, letting it string off his tongue. Kalashnikov grunts and Richard can read that like a book: _it's not what I wanted but it'll do._

Richard knows eventually Kalashnikov would get what he wanted, but what's more important just now is that he'd gotten what he'd wanted, which is rare enough in the Colonel's company. He reaches down and pinches the bit of his flesh between two fingers, raises it, inspects it. Contains a powerful impulse to unhook the piercing and pop it into his mouth.

 _Later. Soon_ , he promises himself. "Colonel, could I trouble you for a glass of water and a bandage?"

But Joe is open-mouthed sprawled asleep and snoring lightly. Richard sighs.

"Here's the bandage. I'll get the water." Kalashnikov holds out a short stack of gauze with a roll of medical tape on top. There is a battered first-aid kit, remarkably similar to the one under Richard's own bed, in his lap.

"Thank you, Major," Richard says.

Kalashnikov's mouth is a wry, lopsided knifeslice on his face and his eyes burn like slow gunpowder, but he helps Richard into his clothes and passes a little white pill to him as they both depart. Richard looks a question at him.

"Penicillin," he gruffs. "For that tooth. Infection'll kill ya slow and painful."

Richard hadn't thought that was such a bad thing until Kalashnikov said it.

 


End file.
